The Cyclone Lullaby
by Hriviel
Summary: After the chandelier crash, Christine has gone, and Erik forlornly leaves Paris to visit an old friend in a distant land the Gypsies had called Oz he seeks the green skinned girl with the rainbow voice. Wicked.Phantom of the Opera crossover.
1. The happy little Bluebirds flew

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THE CYCLONE LULLABY

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_SYNOPSIS: At the end of Act I in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, Christine has gone off with Raoul, so Erik forlornly decides to leave Paris to visit an old friend; in a distant land the Gypsies had called Oz, he seeks the sullen, green-skinned girl shown off to the riffraff as a sin--the girl with the rainbow voice. Wicked/PotO crossover, NOT E/OW!_

_CANON: My main sources for Phantom of he Opera were the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and Susan Kay's novel. For Wicked, I drew mainly on Gregory Maguire's novel, but may add elements from the Schwartz/Holzman musical._

_For Dara, mon petit renard._

* * *

For the first time in his life, music faltered from Erik's skeletal fingertips. A murky silence rang over the House Beyond the Lake. The organ, with its gleaming brass pipes and well-worn keys, regarded him with reproach. Never before had he created nothing but cacophony! Always music … but this was terrifying, discordant noise. 

A growl rose in his throat, like a tiger. He jerked away from the pipe organ, throwing the bench over, and leaving it lying forlornly on its side.

She was gone. Christine had left in tears, on the arm of that wretched Vicomte! She had drawn the hood of her navy cloak over her dark curls, as though it would hide her from the world. But he had seen her.

Hours had passed. The auditorium of the Palais Garnier was empty and silent as a tomb. One woman was dead. The wreckage of the golden chandelier was left where it had fallen. An "accident," as Monsieur Firmin insisted later. The lazy, wealthy patrons, including the Vicomte de Chagny and his brother, had been shocked to the core this night, what with an unfortunate death and horrific mechanical catastrophe.

The Comte Philippe was waiting rather impatiently in his carriage, demanding of the footman the whereabouts of his younger brother.

There. Erik, perched above the stables exit, easily concealed by a statue that he had seen installed, watched like a sentinel. There was the handsome young nobleman, the hero of this story, or so it seemed, leading a young woman gently by the hand.

Just as Erik had done the night before.

She was clothed strangely, in a substantial blue cloak. It was the end of August, and the Parisian nights were still sultry and heavy. The deep hood hid her features, but Erik knew what lay beneath the dense fabric. A round face, but gently sculpted, with large, heavy-lashed dark green eyes, a narrow nose, curving lips …

She paused, and turned her head. For a moment, Erik thought she knew he was there, and imagined her round eyes searching for his. The remnants of the kohl that had outlined her eyes was smeared in black tracks down her cheeks.

But no. She was merely looking back at the stars twinkling high above the opulent walls and roof of the opera house that was her home.

Then she was gone. So simple, a disappearing act! Something Erik could have mastered at an early age, with his aptitude for magic. But no conjuring trick could draw her back to him. No one could hear him, and as the carriage pulled away, the horses clattering on the cobblestones, he gave a hoarse sob, "Christine!"

She didn't hear him. In his heart, he knew she never would.

* * *

He lay behind that statue for hours. Too weary to get up and retreat underground. Every minute, his cosy lair grew more and more like Hell. Dark and torturous in its solitude. He would surely go insane should he remain here, haunted by the memory of his ingénue. No, he must find a place where he could not think of Christine Daaé. 

He would not tell Marie-Louise Giry of his departure. Let the Opéra's staff believe the ghost was laid to rest.

He would not find rest. He would find a friend.

Nadir was the natural choice, but Erik's tolerance of the Persian's fatherly, disapproving manner was growing thin. No, he would not be moralised by Nadir Khan. Not tonight.

Erik slumped against the stone base, drawing his knees up to his chin, like a small child, wrapping his arms around his shins.

Temporarily abandoning his status as an adult, he thought, _No one understands me. No one has _ever_ understood me_.

His mind began lumbering backward, his extraordinary memory playing out an opera of his own life. The construction of his theatre; seeing his mother's sunken face in death; Persia and it's blood-soaked rosy hours; the fairs …

The fairs. Something tugged. An old memory, coloured with emerald reflections.

Erik stood up abruptly. He knew exactly whom he wanted to see.

He wrapped a cowl around his head, and silently clambered down from the roof to the street. It was just dawn now. The sun was tinting the sky with pale light, and the city was languidly rousing itself.

Erik found the man he was looking for on the streets off the Champs-Elysées. The man was standing easily beside his battered travelling coach. It was old black that had faded to a deep forest green. The windows were curtained in viridian. The horses who stood as comfortably as their master, were bright, clean white.

The driver itself was a man of middle age, with a paunch of a belly and long whiskers of a reddish brown. All in all, he was rather nondescript, save for his attire. He was entirely clad in green. From his dark, muddy green boots, to his faded pea green cap, the man was an almost comical sight, making the architecture of Paris look dreary by contrast.

Erik approached the man, and said shortly, "Cab, monsieur."

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked amiably.

"To Oz!" he said curtly.

* * *


	2. beyond the Rainbow

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_BEYOND THE RAINBOW_

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"_Elphaba made up … a song of longing and otherness, of far aways and future days. Strangers closed their eyes to listen …. Elphaba had a _good_ voice. It was controlled and feeling and not histrionic. He listened through to the end, and the song faded ... Later, he thought, The melody faded like a rainbow after a storm, or like winds calming down at last; and what was left was calm, and possibility, and relief."_

_**- **_**from _Wicked_ by Gregory Maguire**.

* * *

As the coach lumbered on its way, Erik didn't bother to open the dark green curtains that obscured his windows. He leaned back wearily, grateful that the seats were, at least, comfortably well-worn. He sank into the soothing darkness, letting his memory play out like a favourite, long-forsaken opera ...

**He had been a boy when he was given his first glimpse of the bizarre land of Oz**. The yellow steppes of the Vinkus looked stark and inhospitable, and the Kells mountains, imposing. Though Erik had never seen Oz, he had heard of it often while he listened to the gypsies' tales; the old conjuror woman kept strange poultices and herbs that Erik had never heard of. The gypsies had told of the oddities they had exhibited to great success many years ago ... Small green elves and mechanical people who ran by clockwork… folk of diminutive stature ... animals with the ability to speak ...

Erik studied the land and peoples with interest. Yes, as the caravan had lurched over Oz, he had seen many who looked completely human, dressed in strange clothing--similar to familiar fashions, but with asymmetrical cuts and odd colours. There were the people of smaller stock, and Erik was shocked and fascinated to see a man having a coherent conversation with a dog--er, Dog, he corrected himself.

The caravan set the fair in the Southern lands, he discerned. The air was heavy and moist; the land was ochre red. Alone as usual, Erik deftly pitched his black-curtained tent and briskly shut the drapes that served as the door. Everyone in the camp knew that it meant he wished solitude, and to disturb him was dangerous. He pondered leaving the gypsies. Perhaps, in this strange, foreign land, a boy in a mask would not be considered so bizarre … Later, just before he was due to begin his show, Erik turned around to don his magician's cloak when he heard a slight fuss just outside.

He drew back the front curtain slightly, just enough for his sharp eyes to take in the sight.

A strange-looking man had entered the camp unbidden, before the fair had open to the public. Several of the burlier gypsy men folk were approaching. Erik was about to drop the cloth back down and ignore the impending altercation when he heard the man's humble voice:

"Please, please listen ... " He held his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I am Brother Frexspar, and I come to you with the message of salvation at the hands of the Unnamed God. All of your hardship, your plight, will not be in vain if you reach for ..."

Erik fought the scornful scoff that bubbled up in his throat. The gypsies endured only the most audacious of holy men--most had reservations of fear greater than their messages of hope and goodwill.

"I am not here as a spectator," said the man earnestly. "Salvation is not impossible ... Let me show you."

And then he saw her.

The young girl trailed behind him like a leafy shadow. Looking awkward in thick leggings and boots beneath a dull homespun dress, she stared at the muddy ground sullenly, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

She was green. The hue of her skin was a remarkable contrast to the rose-coloured Quadlings, a soft, vegetable-emerald shade.

"Fabala," said Brother Frexspar gently. "Sing for me."

"Yes, Papa," she murmured softly, shutting her eyes and drawing a deep breath. She cupped her thin green hands around her mouth and hummed a low note, a carefully-distant expression settling over her face like summer storm clouds. Erik was about to turn away scornfully and ignore her, assuming her to possess a mediocre instrument, when the first line froze the blood in his veins.

_Somewhere over the rainbow …_

When the green-skinned girl sang, her voice seemed to shed colours, artless but infinitely lovely; a hazy, swirling profusion of life-blood crimson, autumn glow, golden saffron, emerald and peridot, sea azure, and iris violet. Erik watched her from the distance inside his tent. While the others stared at her unusual hue, he forgot it, and listened dreamily.

_Way up high,_

_There's a land that I heard of_

_Once in a lullaby._

_Somewhere over the rainbow,_

_Skies are blue;_

_And the dreams that you dare to dream_

_Really do come true._

_Someday I'll wish upon a star_

_And wake up where the clouds are far behind me;_

_Where troubles melt like lemon drops,_

_Away above the chimney tops:_

_That's where you'll find me._

_Somewhere over the rainbow,_

_Bluebirds fly;_

_Birds fly over the rainbow,_

_Why, then, oh why can't I?_

_If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow,_

_Why, then, oh why can't I?_

As her last note floated translucently before fading into a heart-rending silence, she opened her eyes and stared directly into his. Startled, Erik jerked aside, concealing himself while watching.

"Very nice, Fabala," Frex said quietly to his daughter with a grave nod.

She didn't answer, only looking up at him with her liquid dark eyes, a strange expression on her face; was she exasperated or frigid or disappointed?

"Anyone, even a green child, such as my daughter, has reason to hope for the generous forgiveness of the Unnamed God. All you must do is …."

Refusing the religion so similar to Father Mansart's Catholic doctrine, and reluctant to meet the gaze of the green girl again, Erik retreated back into his tent, and busily prepared for his show that night.

He went through the motions of his routine to the impressed and amazed crowd of mixed eyes. His powers of illusion and legerdemain were becoming greater each day, and he never ceased to shock the crowd wherever they went. Even in such a fantastical setting as this, where, Erik was beginning to believe, there was real magic running about.

Erik wearily slipped the mask back over his face and turned his back to the spectators coldly. They wandered out, lost in a fog of sorrow. Good, Erik thought contemptuously. Let them; they're all the same, spineless, hateful, and greedy ….

Sensing a solitary presence left in the tent, he saw a small jade-coloured figure out of the corner of his eye.

Unable to think of anything else to say, Erik said, "You."

The strange girl blinked her sienna eyes. "Me."

She drew nearer. Now, he could see her better. By the poor lantern's illumination, her skin was mottled with pale gold light. It looked like sunlight shining through new spring leaves. Her hair was black as raven plumes, drawn back into a single tight plait. She paused, looking up at him, and he found himself curiously studying her odd face. She was not attractive; the girl was young, perhaps ten years old, but already had prominent cheekbones and a strong, angular jaw which ended in a hatchet chin, jutting forth like an icicle. Her large nose was shaped like a hawk's bill, curving and sharp.

But her eyes were an almost-chestnut hue of brown, with thick black lashes--dark and intense.

_She could be beautiful,_ Erik found himself thinking against his will. _But she isn't._

"My name is Elphaba," she said briskly.

"I am Erik."

She nodded curtly, before saying succinctly and softly, "You're displayed as a _thing_, too?"

"I am a magician, _mademoiselle_," Erik retorted, the old defensive coldness slipping into his voice quickly.

"No," she said steadily. "They don't see you as a person--to them, you're a curiosity. Just as to my father, I am a sin."

"What?"

"Did you not hear his sermon?"

"No. I ignore religion … as a rule."

In an offhand tone, she said, "If I can be saved, anyone can." She shot him a look with a lifted, bushy black brow, and he laughed behind the mask. She smiled slightly.

Just then, a pair of voices outside the tent drifted towards Erik and Elphaba; both winced at their familiarity.

"--born that way? Green as a bush!" Rough, crude, and boisterous, Javert crowed.

"Yes, she was. That colour, with the teeth of a wolf. She's outgrown those, thankfully." The voice, much gentler, was Frex's.

"If she's such a burden to your conscience, my good sir, why don't I simply take her off your hands? And you need not worry about the state of your soul anymore, nor hers."

"Take Elphaba?" There was a terrifying pause, in which Erik heard the girl breathing irregularly, her brown eyes huge. Then, Frex resumed. "No. No, I need Fabala to help tend Nessie and Shell. Since losing my Melena, it's been quite hard to rear three children; with Nanny entering her dotage. Especially dear Nessarose, my beautiful pet. Armless, you know, but bleach lovely."

"Name your price," said Javert with mounting excitement. "I have money, sir, I can pay you handsomely for the girl."

Grimly, Frex responded, "You cannot put a price on my first-born daughter. Good day, sir." A rustle of his robes and footsteps leading away.

"Goddamn holy man. Doesn't know what he's got. A green kid! And one without arms, he says? Might be worth fetching her for a gander, too. A green girl …why, I bet I could pass her off as, say, … a _witch_! Aye, a witch … That's good. Giver 'er a pointy hat and a broom …"

Javert's gruff voice was drawing closer. He was walking around to the front of the tent.

"_Vite_!" Erik hissed, grabbing her forearm and dashing out the back flap. "_Vien avec moi!"_

They ran from the encampment, down to the banks of the Waterslip River. Erik jumped down into the shallow water, gesturing for her to follow. "Come on."

"No." She shook her head vehemently.

"Javert will send the dogs to track us. The water will dispel the scent," Erik explained impatiently.

"_No_," she repeated stubbornly. With his horrid temper mounting, Erik seized her arm again, and pulled. Refusing to move, Elphaba stumbled, and a splash of the muddy water dappled onto the back of her wrist.

When she cried out in pain, Erik instantly released her. He watched in horror as the few droplets of water seemed to melt her flesh like a strong acid. But since it was only a small amount, it stopped, and left her with a painful-looking wound. Silently, he guided her back up the bank; he tore a strip from the hem of his cloak and began to wrap it slowly around her wrist, his thoughts and memories dancing in his mind.

"I'm sorry," Erik said at last, tying the bandage neatly and ripping away the excess. "Are you all right now?"

"You didn't listen to me," she snapped. Then, quietly, "Why did you bandage my arm?"

"You were injured, Mademoiselle Elphaba."

"Why not just let me bleed? My father would have. Nanny always said children should be raised to endure hardship."

Erik bowed his head, recalling with painful clarity the night of his fifth birthday. "My mother would have let _me_ bleed, as well. Perhaps I thought you were worth saving."

Elphaba peered at him curiously. Then she said, sotto voce, "Saving a witch?"

"No, not a witch," he answered softly. "A friend."

She smiled fully then; her teeth looked very white against her thin green lips. "We are the same, aren't we?"

Erik stared down into the river. A pair of mismatched eyes, one so pale as to look like a cataract, and the other dark, in a white mask looked back. But beside him was a long, sharp face with a clear green complexion.

Resigned, Elphaba sighed. "I had better go. Nessarose gets irritable and Shell is fussy when dinner's late."

Erik stood up, and reached for her hand; but just as his skeletal fingers were about to touch her verdant ones, he stopped. Instead, he withdrew, and bowed politely.

"Good-bye, Elphaba."

"Good-bye, Erik," she murmured, giving him a final glance, then scuttled away through the tall grass. He watched her go, then trudged back toward the gypsy camp. No, he would not choose this night to run away … if a girl with green skin was a sin, a boy with the face of death would surely still be condemned to be a monster.

Night had fallen. The bonfires were lit, and the girls were out with their scarves and their full, whirling skirts. The men were about to bring the bows down on their fiddles when something new and immense neared.

The structure rolled on rickety wheels directly and fearlessly into the centre of camp. An outraged murmur immediately overtook the gypsies; who _dared_ disturb their temporary home?

It was a clock; the hands were painted on, set to one minute before midnight. A massive mechanical construction of gears and proscenium arches, topped with a menacing, metal dragon with outspread leather wings and angry, red-jewel eyes. It was a pile of architecture, melted together, with alcoves that displayed shadowy figurines leering out at them, who seemed to move and dance of their own volition.

The gypsies cautiously crept closer to the clock wagon, but there was a great bellow, and an orange fireball emitted from the mouth of the dragon.

One of the wooden windows swung open, revealing a Dwarf with a toothy grin. " 'Evening, Ladies and Gents! You're all in for a treat tonight; some would say a classic theatrical blockbuster! Welcome, my fine folks, to the Clock of the Time Dragon!"

The show was a bizarre procession of images … It was a story no one had seen before. A pretty opera singer puppet with dark hair taken beneath the theatre by an angel …no, a man in a mask. Taken … in a boat? A frightening face in the darkness … a love song on the roof … a chandelier falling … .

_The puppet singer-girl in her exquisite wedding gown put her arms around the disfigured puppet man and kissed him deeply, drawing him briefly into a tender embrace before she sought his swollen and twisted lips again. _

_Stricken, the disfigured puppet man released the hero-puppet from the noose and bid them to leave him alone. But, as Erik watched dizzily, the pretty singer-puppet re-entered slowly, and held out the tiny ring. Erik shut his eyes, but could not drown out the only words in the Time Dragon's presentation:_

… I love you …

_The bride puppet fled in tears. The puppet man, prostrate with grief, clutched the discarded wedding veil to his chest and seemed to be weeping …_

Erik awoke with a start. Had he dozed off without even realising it? Lost in his own memories of Oz and Elphaba. She was roughly five years younger than himself; like he, she would be an adult now. Briefly he wondered what could have come of her; had she married?

He allowed himself a small, sad smile; in all likelihood, she had become a cranky recluse like himself.

A scant twenty minutes or so later, the green coach lurched to an abrupt stop.

"Sir?" came the driver's cheerful voice, "We have arrived."

* * *

"Over the Rainbow" Harburg/Arlen. 


	3. east Of nowhere

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EAST OF NOWHERE_

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Erik paid his driver well, experiencing only a twinge of doubt over his choice of French currency. But it seemed not to matter. The amiable green-clad man tipped his tidy hat, and drove his coach off into the distance, his jolly humming fading off into the distance. Erik had asked the man earlier where the nearest civilization lay. The coachman answered that the small town of Red Windmill hosted a barrack of Gale Force soldiers.

Erik remembered with much more disquiet and uncertainty his second encounter with Elphaba. About a month before he took up at the fair at Nijni-Novgorod, he had ventured back to that mysterious land of Oz. He had been roaming in the foothills of the hauntingly-named Madeleine mountain range when he heard a set of steady solitary footsteps on the nearby road. Anticipating to accomplish an effortless highway robbery, Erik hunkered down and waiting for the traveller.

She was walking alone. Dressed in a dull red homespun frock trimmed with clumsy crochet-work, heavy lace-up brown boots and thick dark stockings, she carried a single battered suitcase. Her hair was in a single, long plait; it looked just like a black silk rope. She wore a pair of delicate silver spectacles perched on her beaklike nose. She was of average height, with a gangly, angular build, that, nonetheless betrayed a faint degree of feminine grace.

But despite the gulf of years that lay between them, Erik would have recognised the green girl anywhere.

"Mademoiselle Elphaba!"

She spun around; now, he saw her hatchet-shaped face, grown even sharper than when he last saw her. It gave her a forbidding air, her dark eyes hooded.

But it seemed that she recognised him, too, as he emerged from the shadows like a shadow himself. "Hello, Erik."

She slowed her pace as he caught up with her, shifting her suitcase to her other hand. "It _is_ you beneath that mask, correct?"

From anyone else, he would have reacted with violence. But, physical looks aside, Elphaba Thropp was different. Her skin still had that faint luminescence of springtime foliage. He remembered the sweet sound of her youthful voice.

"Where are you heading to?"

"Shiz," she answered in her typical laconic fashion. When he glanced at her sharply, she clarified shortly, "University."

He was impressed. He had never heard of female students being admitted to the universities in what he could only think of as "the Other World." But Elphaba was not as amazed as he was.

"I'm really only going so I can be established there for Nessarose next year. Father wants her to get a decent education. She's inherited his self-righteousness and habit of religion, which definitely curries favour with him."

"What's it like? To have a sibling?"

"Physically disabled, and completely reliant on other people to care for her." She smiled, but not happily. "I am a tool of theirs."

Sensing that this was not a subject to pursue, he turned his attention to a more practical one.

"Mademoiselle," Erik began with a trace of unhappiness at his own incompetence. "Your world is very strange to me. I would very much appreciate if you would …" He gestured helplessly at her dark, shapeless shoulder bag.

She tilted her head up at him. "Draw you a map?"

"_S'il te plaît_."

She crouched down abruptly, withdrawing a flimsy book and a pt of ink from her bag, tearing out the flyleaf. From her pocket she produced a brilliant green quill and dipped it gracefully into the ink. He watched as she easily began to sketch out a map, dividing the page diagonally into four sections which she labelled in tiny, neat handwriting, so different from his careless scrawl. She finished without flourish, and held it out to him at arms' length. He took it, and, despite his care not to touch her, his white fingers brushed her jade ones. For some reason, he looked at the light spilling down on her ebony hair like a rain shower.

He turned away hastily, shoving away thoughts he had banished from his mind years ago. He turned his head and noticed the gentle sound of water flow.

"A waterfall," Erik murmured, pausing, recalling the wounds Elphaba had suffered from wet contact. But still he stepped off the road and neared the small grotto, hidden by leafy trees. The green girl followed him, keeping her distance from the slight spray. When she spoke, he detected a trace of reverence beneath her flippant tone.

"Ozian tradition states that if you lay your hand in the stream and make a wish in Saint Aelphaba's name, it will come true."

"Like wishing upon a star?"

She smiled softly at the utterly foreign idea. "Water wounds me, so I never do so."

"May I make a wish for you?" Erik asked suddenly.

"For me?" She blinked. The idea of anyone doing something optimistic on her behalf was altogether bizarre.

"What would you wish for? For yourself?"

"Wishing is such useless nonsense. It does noting but injury."

"Come now, Miss Elphaba, there must be something you desire. Limitless intelligence? A capacious heart? Nerves of steel? To go beyond the rainbow? A soul?" Erik persisted, trying in vain to ignore the implications of his words to himself, "Everyone longs for something they cannot have."

"Yes, but--" She looked agitated now, her thick black brows knitted. "It's frank futility! I don't believe a word of anything that smacks of higher powers. Only brainless pleasure faithers go for--"

Erik didn't think. He grabbed her hand mid-tirade, and plunged his free hand into the curtain of cool water. And through him, she could have her _souhaite_. When the shock of contact faded from her velvety eyes, she spoke so softly, he could barely make out the words over the rush of the waterfall.

"I wish … I wish I could be beautiful."

Erik stared at her, suddenly acutely aware that they both no longer children. And despite the chilly and prickly veneer she wore, Elphaba still possessed the emotions she'd like to forsake.

This time the recognition he saw when he looked into her sienna eyes was of an entirely different sort. There was a naked light thrown on her desperate need. Erik felt dizzy. It was not akin to recognising someone else, but seeing one's own self in another. _Is this--this need in me, as well? _he wondered. He despised it, but it was true. It was the first time he admitted he was not insulated from everyone else by solitude, safely cocooned from caring.

Elphaba slowly lifted her narrow green hand until it hovered just above his shoulder. Erik held his breath, realising that his hand was growing numb beneath the gush of cold water. Her green face was dreadfully sad, But she only shook her head and backed away, dropping her hand. This was not meant to be, and they both knew it.

"I'm sorry, Erik …" she whispered. "You and I are too much alike. And I just hate myself."

Her honesty brought him back to his senses. She was right, of course. The words rang ultimately true, as though he had uttered them himself.

Something shiny winked at him beneath the pool of rippling water. Unthinking, he thrust his hand in and pulled from the river mud a round piece of hematite. It was a stunning piece for being unrefined, nearly flawless. He would have to fashion a setting for it and wear it, as a cufflink, or perhaps a ring …

Attempting to sound as steady as possible, he said, "I must go now, _mademoiselle_. Good day."

"Wait!" she said suddenly, and fished for something from her bag. It was her emerald green quill pen. She held it out to him. "Take it, please. If anything, as a gift."

He blinked, and hesitated before accepting it. "Thank you."

He watched her retreating form briefly, before turning away himself, deciding that he would head back toward eastern Europe. This encounter had left him shaken badly, and he needed to repair his defences, or he may become prone to accepting people into his life …

In the Vinkus, Erik wandered the narrow, unkempt roads, ambivalent about allowing himself to feel the loneliness that was creeping upon him.

He thought of Elphaba, and her vicarious waterfall wish. He knew that it had been a vain one, but from such an ugly girl, it was heart-rending in its innocent sincerity. He knew. There were times in his youth when he, too, had wished for physical attractiveness. How the world would have laid itself at his feet! If only … what might have been… But reality always set back in with perverse cruelty.

Up ahead, Erik saw a settlement. The distant bells in Red Windmill were ringing steadily.

_Ding Dong!_


End file.
